3These are taiga woods. Snow covers their floor...and lightly falls, as this tale begins. It's the Yule season.
In some sections of this wood, only stumps remain. Again, it's the Yule season; what were once many pyramid-shaped trees growing near one another have been hacked down and converted into Yule trees...in homes all across the Great Northwest. Not to worry, though; the state is aware of this...as are the rangers and the Mounties.
Downhill, there's an A-frame house. Near it, there are others like it...as there are also a few smaller facilities, of various sizes and purposes. Their chimneys smoke. This, it seems, is where the snowshoe hare hunters hang their snowshoes.
From the top of a shed, an anemometer spins. As the winds are at present, they don't spin too fast. This isn't always the case; no one, after all, ever accused snowy winters of being non-windy...especially considering all of the non-snowy winters that've been windy...and even more especially considering how semi-traditional mega-tornadoes, in certain spots during the Yule season, have recently become. Not to worry, though; nothing like that will happen before this story ends. The game that will be hunted, after all, should be the speediest thing in this story.
Just inside this A-frame house, snowshoes hang from hooks. Parkas do, too...as do certain scarves, sock caps, mittens, gloves, and umbrellas. It seems that those who live here would be well-settled... Alas, a lot of them live life on the road...or in the air...or across waters... You've been told that one of their ancestors once died aboard the Edmund Fitzgerald's last voyage.
In a niche within a wall, a fire ax hangs. The niche is encased in glass. The ax never gets used. But then, that's for the better. It's also been over a decade since the firehouse last inspected this place. But then, that's for the better, too... Funny; you'd almost expect a house like this to catch fire more often...
In the sitting room, a big-screen TV plays. Cross-country skiing...from the Winter Olympics...plays. It's unclear, though, as to whether this is live, or if it's a recording from previous Winter Olympics...
This is the grate. In it, Yule logs burn. From the mantlepiece, stockings hang; sleigh bells have been sewn onto them. Snowshoe hares have been embroidered on some of them. On one, there's a design of Santa Claus's sleigh...being toted by eight tiny snowshoe hares, rather than the usual caribou...
Atop the mantlepiece, trophies sit. They're for various sports; winter and otherwise. None of them are Olympic...but then, no one you know expects them to be. The sportsmen who earned them, it seems, are very good sports at settling for small stakes.
From a rack just above the mantle, a rifle hangs. It's lever-action, and a long-ranger. At present, it isn't scoped...but you're pretty sure it has been in the past...plenty of times. Its caliber also looks like it's taken more than a few snowshoe hares, too...
On the hearth, a piece of taxidermy sits, on a wooden plaque. It was once a snowshoe hare. He was as white as the snow. For the most part, this would have served him well. Alas, out here, even if a snowshoe hare never ends up on the wrong ends of a lynx's claws...it's often only a matter of time before a rimfire bullet sends his soul...if he even has one...to Valhalla for Hares.
Beneath the hearth, a whippet sleeps. His name is Photon. He's hardly the beast hare-hunter in the Northwest...but that's sort of why he lives here. That, and he gets well-fed and respectably-quartered. He doesn't deserve much of it. Better thing, then, that like all dogs, he's a pack creature.
This is the Yule tree. It's very tall...and pre-lit. The lights are multi-color. An ornamental star tops it. It makes the Yule tide gay... Or rather, it would if this was still the Gay Nineties. You're almost glad that was no affair of your time...or even most of your great-grandparents' time...
This is a hallway closet. Its door is ajar. Inside, a soccer ball sits on the top shelf. Below it, a few soccer jerseys hang from hangars. One is for the Algerian national team. Another is for the Guyanese national team. Another is for the Sierra Leonean national team. Another is for the South Korean national team. And a fifth is for the Slovene national team. Someone who lives here, it seems, has a very strange habit... Either that, or they value military fashion more than it's worth. But then again, some people just do. They're not deluded; they're just over-illusioned...
In the closet of the master bedroom, actual military apparel hangs...along with some cop/gendarmerie apparel. This would include a set of CF battledress. (The CF is Canada's combined-arms military.) This would also include a Mounty's reds. It'd also include a Wyoming state trooper's fine threads...and those of a Nebraska state trooper...and those of a North Dakota state trooper. It's unclear, as to whether all of this comes from a surplus depot, or if the hosts who live here actually have or have had practical use for them...
This is the kitchen. Via a maker, a pot of coffee brews itself. On a countertop, a pitcher of tea sits; the bags are still in it. Nearby, there's a toaster oven. Inside, a very hearty breakfast toasts...
Upstairs, you shower. The soaps smell very good. The water, too, is very hot. You bask in it, while you can...for you'll be spending most of the day in the snow, upturning stones and chasing snowshoe hares. You almost can't wait. If only hares weren't so fast; you don't anticipate chasing them the old-fashioned way. Some hope, though, you do draw...for lynxes, the number one non-human hunter of snowshoe hares, is also a low-stamina creature. Hence, if he can catch himself a hare, you can too. You've just got to do a better job of crawling where he'd be too hasty...
Atop a bathroom countertop, a Thermasilk hairdryer lies. It seems you share this A-frame home with longer-haired company... This, though, would not include you; you wear your hair shaved. Some, though, have told you that you shouldn't; you're very hairy, after all, presumably via your mother's father's genes. It's been a scourge that you've borne since puberty.
Down the hall, in the room where you stay, there's a poster on the wall. It's a hero poster; it's of Alpha Flight, a team of Canadian heroes from the Marvel Comics world. The team's founding roster consisted of Aurora, her twin brother Northstar, Sasquatch, Snowbird, Shaman, and their leader Vindicator. Sadly, at present, the team, within the comics world, is defunct. Last they were assembled, though, their roster consisted of Aurora, Northstar, Shaman, Puck, Snowbird, Fang, Nemesis, and their latest leader Guardian. The team started out as part of the X-Men.
This is the bed where you've been sleeping for the past few nights. It's got all of the usual bedding features laid across it. In addition to those, it has pelts; most, as one would expect, are snowshoe hare pelts. There are also, though, a few fisher, sable, and marten pelts. Red squirrel pelts, there also are. And yes, there are more than a few beaver pelts, too; some of them have patriotic Maple Leaf tags attached to them. There's also at least one arctic fox pelt; this, of most of them, is the one you prefer.
Atop one of the bookcases, a stuffed toy lies. It's of a harp seal pup; one of the cutest things that lives north of the highest latitudes on Earth...if one doesn't count the just-as-high ones just north of the South Pole.
Downstairs, you open the toaster oven. With a spatula, you serve yourself up four of some of the best slices of Welsh rarebit you've ever feasted your eyes upon. The dish, as many know, is also often referred to as "Welsh rabbit," despite not actually being made of rabbit. It's little higher-tech than cheese on toast. Either way, in defense against an empty stomach during the hunt, it serves better than none. It also goes down the esophagus better than chunks from an Osage orange log...
With a knife and fork, you skewer and saw that Welsh rarebit as if your sanity depended on it. It will, in fact... Again, it'll potentially mean the difference between finishing this upcoming hunt and having to come back early just for a tide-over. You love a warm house just as much as any man... But you also love hare-hunting...which, video game experiences aside, you won't be able to do at any home, regardless of how warm or comfy.
Into your bib, you soon dress. A balaclava, too, you slip over your head. They're all very warm...as they should be. Also, during your earlier shower, you remembered to cover yourself in cover-scent, so that your natural scent won't spook your game as you're hunting it. For you, this is very important; again, as a person who's neither fast nor durable, you'd rather not play tag with a snowshoe hare if there's a way around that. And again, if a lynx can be a couch potato and still stand a chance of killing one of the taiga's fastest vermin, you can too.
Across an ottoman, your armament rests. It consists of a cam-bow, archery gloves, and a cloth quiver. They're all mossy bog camouflage-fashioned. Soon, one is harnessed to your back, the twins are on both of your hands, and you grip the third by its... Well, by its grip, of course.
Near the hearth, the whippet still sleeps. He's rolled over on his back. Photon, it seems, might as well be a futon. He certainly isn't a Teton... And while he might not be a two-ton, depending on how fast he'd run, and what kind of equipment he wore, he could potentially hurl a two-ton punch if he tried to run through a wall... You don't know about a wall, but you're aware that he once ran into a pole while running greyhound-fast... You almost wish, in fact, you were there to see it...
In the utility room, you reach for one of the whippet's leashes...but then you hesitate. You'd value some assistance during this hunt...but you're not so certain that the whippet is the best candidate for that job. There might, in fact, be a better option just outside...or several.
In snowshoes, you make your way outside, across a driveway, and to the front entrance of a strange-looking building. It's got many vents just beneath its roof; some of them are sealed via chicken wire.
You open the door. The stench of falcon manure reaches your nostrils. It's a stable where feathers are shed, and where speed is bred; speed that's been known to make a cheetah look like a crawler...if only cheetahs could fly.
In separate cages, falcons sit atop their roosts. At times, they flap their wings. Almost as often, they make fierce bird noises. To a human, they don't look all that intimidating... A wild hare, of course, wouldn't likely have the same opinion of them...as wouldn't a suslik, a chipmunk, or a gopher.
From a rack on a wall, you fetch a ring with keys on it. The keys are color-coded, to match the locks they go to. You fumble through the many keys, jingling them as you do, and finally find the one with the white dot painted on it.
Within one of the cages, a kestrel dwells. He's better-behaved, to an extent, than most of his kestrelery mates. He's also smaller than most of them... But then, that's a kestrel, for one. In other cages, there are also falconets and merlins. In one cage, even, there's a caracara.
The lock on the kestrel's cage, too, has a white dot painted near its keyhole. Hence, you stick the proper key into it and turn it. You open the cage, relieve the kestrel Will-I-Am, from his roost, and begin work harnessing him.
To your hips, you harness a special yoke. It's got bull bars, which stand from near your hips. On either one of them, Will-I-Am will perch...if only to spare you the burden of always having to keep an arm raised, just to accommodate for your avian hare-hunting companion. A leash, the kestrel also wears; it's made of chain and is attached to the bull-bar harness you wear around your upper back.
Armed and equipped at last, you begin your trek through the taiga. There's just one last matter that needs addressing...
Thankfully, it sits just outside a nearby shop. It's a snowmobile. It's mostly tan; almost as if Jeep made it...if Jeep was as good at making snowmobiles as it was at making its own long-signature jeeps... Behind the seat, it's got a compartment where you can leave your game bag between kills.
The snowmobile, you mount. You know that there's already gas and oil in it. You start its engine. Soon, its exhaust vent smokes. Nothing has ever sounded sweeter...except maybe a monster truck. Alas, the sanest of people know better than to hunt snowshoe hares with an elephant gun.
Soon, you move through the taiga woods, leaving a Cat trail in your wake. Exhaust smoke, too, you leave. To your bull bar, the kestrel remains perched...and has to flap its wings every now and then, just to stay balanced. Perching in walking trees, after all, is not something that Will-I-Am can say that he's used to...if he could talk...or even rap.
Downhill, there are bogs. Their waters have been known to bubble...and stink with sulfur. For a snowshoe hare, such a bog would be an ideal source of hydration... Even so, hares can't swim...hence, a hunter wouldn't have much luck staking out the shores of these bogs...a common tactic though it is for the worst of hunters to wait near a water hole for their quarry to come get a drink.
Uphill, there are woods. Alas, up there, the trees are shorter. And the wood only extends a little more...before cliff walls separate it from the less-accessible highlands.
Not too far from this, where the trees of the boreal wood are much taller, there's a tree stand. Its fabrics are green, like the taiga.
Atop a hill, your snowmobile has been abandoned. Your footprints are nowhere to be seen... But then, that's likely because you're wearing snowshoes. These shoes might or might not make you more qualified to hunt a creature that is known, in English, as the snowshoe hare... You just...can't be expected to chase them while wearing them. But again, you've already established that you won't be chasing them anyway, even if they do run.
Downhill from the tree stand, and within view of the tree stand, there's undergrowth. This'd include some juniper...and other plants. They all yield berries. Many, humans couldn't eat; some, they could. That's not why you'd be here, though; you'd be here because the hare would. He'd eat the berries...
As things are, though, it seems that many of them have already been eaten... But then, hare hunters haven't been here as often as they should be. That, though, is what you're here for. With you on patrol, those berries will have chances to grow back...clement weather though there will not be to encourage this in a hurry.
Snowshoes shed, you make your way up the tree trunk, and into the above tree stand. Your kestrel barely budges, as you do this; he merely flaps his wings, each time he needs to regain his balance.
Up in the stand, there's a chair. Here, you sit. You remove your balaclava and breathe freer air...which is only not as free as it can be because of the tree stand's lesser, but not entirely non-fire-code-worthy, ventilation. Plus, your hair itches; it feels good to be able to scratch it again. Your archery gloves are also bare-fingered; they allow you to do this a lot better if they were closed-fingered gloves...although you could still use them as brushes, if you wanted to be more savage... But then, you might be better off setting a better example for your kestrel companion.
You undo the straps on your pack and remove it. Now, it's just your quiver. You transfer the kestrel to a more stable perch and also remove the bull bar from your hips. Will-I-Am's chain leash, you leave attached.
From your pack, you remove a pair of range-finders; a kind of binoculars. You hope to not need them... But then, of course, hares are very fast...and hence, long-rangers. And sadly, archery is only so good for covering so many distances. If it was a rifle you were using, the concern would be as good as absent. Plus, any rifle you'd use would surely have a scope attached to it, which would virtually eliminate the need for the range-finder.
On his nearby perch, Will-I-Am rests; he's had a long trip from his comfy kestrelery to here. Again, he's not used to mobile perches...benevolent, and even employing, though they might be.
Preliminarily, you use the range-finders. You scout all of the surrounding grounds, attempting to foresee where the hare would settle...as well as what you'd have to do, with the bow, to stand the biggest chance of shooting a bullseye with your first arrow. For now, it all seems very straightforward and un-obstructed. Any snowshoe hare, it seems, would want to be anywhere near here, if they didn't know what the tree stand was for...and if they thought that the nearest lynx was as far away as Alberta or Montana. Plus, your footprints are nowhere to be seen; this should encourage them, too. Plus, they can't smell you if you're wearing cover-scent. Hence, all of the preliminaries have been perfectly bleached. The only one that hasn't is the presence of your quarry. Alas, only time and patience can address that.
Hence, you rest your mind. As you do, and illusion begins to cast itself...
These are deserts. They've no shortage of mesas, buttes, or arches. And yes, in some of the lowest spots, there are badlands. It's a land of dreams...and also an ideal buffer region between a pair of rival countries whose names and reasons for feuding need not matter.
Through the land, a great furrow runs. Within it, a railroad track runs. Within the walls of the great furrow, there are very long rows of giant electromagnets. The device that hosts their counterparts makes runs through this furrow. It's very fast; almost unnaturally so, in fact.
Through the furrow, a highball train makes its run. It's no bush-beater. It's often in a hurry. But then, it's a big desert all around it...especially before it.
You're aboard. It's not a bad ride, inside it... The passageway is carpeted, and the seats are well-upholstered. It rattles, a bit... But then, those are trains for one. Ward Kimball and Ollie Johnston could've once told anyone...if they both didn't dream of bullet trains long before the first one was ever made.
Outside, parts of the desert pass by. Alas, you can only see the tops of certain hills and dunes...if you can see anything at all. These trains, sadly, are not known for taking the scenic route. Shame; it seems they could make more money that way...even if they'd get to their destinations too much later...
Butt soft, a stewardess approaches. She's Chinese...and in a slutty French maid's outfit. Hence, she's easy on your eyes. Alas, if only she came bearing a Yule gift that wasn't a gag one.
Speaking of what, she presents you with a white wine cocktail. You didn't order it; you know you didn't order it... Hence, you only pretend to drink it, as she leaves. She certainly takes a long time to leave you be...which is something that you wouldn't ordinarily mind, except... There's just something about that "DON'T MAKE ME CRAWL" tattoo on one of her bare arms that sets you off-balance...and not just because you can read it, and you're dreaming...or even because it's in Chinese runes, and you can still read it...
She's gone; good. Deviously, you empty the cocktail beneath the seat before you and set the glass in a holder. You stand, and creep into the train car's back compartment...where much is stored.
Hmm; it seems that a stage magus is one of the passengers... Either that, or this is a freight train, and the circus is where it's bound... A stench, too, there is; livestock, it seems. There are goats, doves, and rabbits; the rabbits vanish in and out of an upturned top hat sitting nearby. The goat is in a huge wicker-basket. A coffin, too, there is; it surely has a false bottom within its bottom...
A bag, you find. You unpack it. Inside, there's a harness; it's powered by a chest reactor. The reactor is a very direct source of light...and everything as fast as it.
Soon, you've enclothed yourself within the harness. One punch of the reactor later, and you're turned-on. You don't even have to jerk off... You almost sense, in fact, that you've a literal star, shining from your chest...
Alas, you're soon up a creek without a paddle...or rather, you're up a track without a knife. From the magic boxes and the basket, foes emerge. They're speedsters. They're masked. They've got vents for respiration...and they make creepy noises, as they respirate... Their eyes generate light... They vibrate, and generate lightning... They've Stars of David embroidered on their chests...
The chase is on. You run up to the top of the train and attempt to outrun your foes. Whenever you don't outrun them, you chase them yourself. You struggle to survive a death blow, it seems, brought to you, very sinisterly, by the Stars of Beth LeHemme...
As you run, you leave a stream of light in your wake. You glow, too. These villainous speedsters call themselves the Stars of Beth LeHemme; you, alas, are a Star of Bethlehem, to an extent...
Up ahead, the train's about to go through a tunnel. Hence, you take this fight across the desert sands. As you run, you make a furrow of your own, throwing heaps of sand every here and there. Alas, they throw up heaps of sand, and build furrows, too...
Gauntlets, it seems, they wear. They're made of small, sedimentary stones. Via this, they can assemble and separate spontaneously. Either way, via them, they pack a punch. These punches, you soon learn, are tough enough to send you flying across the deserts...as well as the badlands that separate them.
You land in a gulley, and scoot across it, being sent down it as if it was a flood, and you were being washed away... Funny; these punches, though scary, don't hurt you much... It's almost as if this harness did more than just enhance your speed...
Before long, the speedsters are back. They're attacking you again. You generate lightning, and attempt to strike them... Damn, they're seasoned at this... But then, they seem to eat it every day...
With glass wakizashis, you do combat with them. You'd stab them in the gut...if only they were more gullible. You certainly hope one of them doesn't stab you in the gut...
Here and there, speedster robots attack you. With both your speed and other defenses, you evade them. At times, you also find ways to turn the robots' force against the "human element" of their army...
Your own gauntlets, you soon enclothe your fists in; they're electroshock gauntlets. With them, you prod your foes. Funny; you'd think that beings that naturally exuded lightning would be more immune to these things... Alas, their asses are just as sensitive as a woman's...if they're not women. (You can't tell if they are; they're masked.)
Armed with a brace of spathas, you duel with many of them. In this regard, you feel a lot like a Roman...or worse yet, a Roman gladiator...
Via controlling spacetime, you surprise-attack many of your foes. Alas, it seems some of them can do the same to you... Shit; this fight just got harder...if not slower...
Some of your foes subdivide their souls, and create, via the pieces, combat phantoms. From a sole self, they can project as many as eight such phantoms at a time; all armed, and all making certain noises while fighting. You create some of your own emo-phantoms, too; just not as many.
With the high-tech vents over your airways, you scream at one another. It's rather potent. Alas, you can't say this is your favorite part of the fight; your own scream, it seems, is just as hard to listen to as their own sonic blasts are to recover from... Good thing, then, that this harness allows you to heal quickly...
It's also a good thing that your harness allows you to absorb the energy of your foes' screams. Once you have, this makes you faster. Seems strange, alas, that two armies would use a sort of bullet, if they were both immune/empowered by it... But then, no one's ever accused warriors of having common sense.
Sometimes while streaking, you leave a very long and very thick trail of smoke in your wake. This literally clouds your foes' judgment... Alas, at times, it clouds yours, too... Once again, this fight just got harder, if not slower...
Smoke, too, you can both absorb. You absorb its energy, and then you get faster. Again, one would think that bullets that kill would be a more worthy investment than bullets that might as well be forced-swallowed steroids into the throats of both sides...
With small swords, you often duel with your foes...while, at times, atop the highball trains' many cars... Alas, you can never do this for long; your foes like to broadside you while you do this, after all...
As often as you can, you summon shields...whether they be psionic shields, or shields improvised from glass, via the deserts' surrounding sands... Also as often as you can, you throw these shields and attempt to use them as offensive weapons. It doesn't always make a difference, to your foes, if they're faster than you can possibly throw the shields...
With pointed metal scabbards, you stab your foes in their legs. With other scabbards, you block their attacks. With scabbards, you often attempt to carry them point-forward; if you tried it the other way, after all, you'd inadvertently turn them into windsocks, and risk dropping them while running.
A different pair of gauntlets, you enclothe your fists in. These, by contrast, generate Capsicum spray (i.e. pepper spray). You don't get many chances to...but when you do, you spray this substance right into your foes' masks. They hate it, of course. You hate it even more, alas, when they do it to you with gauntlets of their own.
Via precognition, you can foresee where your foes will attack next. Via this, you take chances to control space-time; combined with your pre-cog, this can be a deadly tactic. Alas, if only your foes weren't just as likely to exploit this phenomenon as you...
In the badlands, some of the hoodoos are made entirely of mirror glass. And if not that, some of the highball train's windows have mirror-like exteriors. Via this, you and your foes play dangerous mirror-games. Via this, you trap some of them within mirrors. Into one of them, you nearly get trapped yourself; and if not for a pair of ice-fire gauntlets you also carry with you, it'd be the endgame for you.
One of your foes wears an old-fashioned knight's helm. A knightly sword, too, he carries. With him, you duel. You soon produce your own flaming mega-sword; it burns with ice-fire. Via this armament, you two duel atop the trains' cars. Again, alas, you never stay long; the other speedsters keep broadsiding you.
One of the speedsters wears a rainbow-colored suit. He generates fragrances, as he runs; the fragrances are enhanced by their molecules' kinetic energy; this, in turn, is generated by his speed. You think this foe of yours might be gay... Either way, he's trying to kill you, so you fight him.
At times, both you and your foes draw composite whip-swords. With them, you take cracks at each other. Via them, you both leave lash marks on one another. Alas, you hope that one of these lashes doesn't disarm you of the speed harness...
With combs, some of your foes attempt to slash your face...or the straps of your harness. Also, some of their combs are made of mirror-glass. Some of their combs, in fact, double as wakizashis...or semes. You're fast, though, and dodge most of them.
Some of your foes are just as likely to fight with their astral selves, as they are with their physical ones. Hence, you're just as likely to use your pre-cog/spacetime control factor to find the stashed physical selves of your astral foes, and slash them up, thus either putting their astral selves out of commission, or forcing them to reunite their astral selves with their physical selves. At times, you fight with your astral self, as well...
Among grounded speedsters, an angel of speed, it seems, is also among your foes. His wing plumage is cafe-noir. His eyes generate wrathfully purple light. He fights with a pair of flaming ice-fire composite whip-swords. He's terrifying...but not enough to frighten you.
The battle's fever rises. Soon, a speedster army assembles. Soon, it charges, from all directions, right at the train car that you now stand atop...
As your doom impends, you improvise one last weapon; a shield, booby-trapped with many photo-grenades. In mini-whirlwinds, you spin around...and toss the shield into the open. Seven others, like it, you toss in other directions; you charge your own emo-phantoms to convey them for you...
Now, they're in place. Now, they explode. Now, you summon an entire small house, made entirely of shields, all around yourself, and shield yourself from the massive chain-explosion, that ends the battle...
Now, all of the villainous speedsters' corpses lie all over the desert. They're history...and will soon be unified with all of the mummies' sarcophagi that this desert's sands surely conceal...as if the ancient kings of these lands couldn't afford to have themselves entombed in pyramids, as it was in Egypt.
Atop this highball train car, you rest. It was a hard-fought fight...but one so worth doing again. You won't, though; you need your energy. A cot, too, you could use...as well as a roasted peccary...
From up high, a kestrel descends. He starts fluttering around your head like a hummingbird. He...makes a rather pesky habit out of it... It's like he endeavors to tell you something...
You wake. Something flaps its wings near your head. Will-I-Am, it seems, is making a pest of himself. As your consciousness returns, you begin to perceive why...
With your left hand, you stroke his back and calm him. You rub your eyes, and take a peek through the tree stand's porthole...
The bunnies, it seems, are here! None of them are chocolate...but that's okay. This is Christmas; not Easter. Long ears, they've all got. Very long legs, they've all got... Wider eyes than those of rabbits, they've all got. Large steps from here to there, they all take... You're almost sad that not a single one of them has pronghorn horns... Better luck, alas, several lines of latitude south, where the buffalo roam, the deer and antelope play...and the cowboy singer is sought-after by birdwatchers...
At long last, the cows have come home...or, in this case, the bucks. Your archery, now, you take up. You nock an arrow, draw it, and stick the head through the embrasure...
Your glove has a strap hanging from it. From it, a hook hangs. With it, you attach the fletching of the arrow. Hence, you need not grip the arrow while drawing it; and to release it, all you've got to do is flip a release mechanism with your finger. This way, your CTS (i.e. carpal tunnel syndrome) is less likely to deteriorate...
With your dominant eye, you seek out the fattest-bottomed hare of them all. They feast upon the nearby juniper, and its berries. Fallen cones, too, they molest... There might be a few cones that the crossbills and squirrels haven't already rendered infertile...
Tonight, you're going to take one of them home. You're going to take one of them home, down beside that red fire line. You're going to give him all you've got. Fat-bottomed hares, after all, make this world go round... Fannie Mae couldn't hold her own fanny to them...
At last, you've found one. You take aim. His huge butt faces you...as does his fluffy tail. His ears are very long, as are his legs. He's not getting away from you.
You relax. You take it easy. Nothing will ruin this; you keep telling yourself that. Soon, you're ready. Soon, you flip the switch on the strap on your gauntlet, releasing the arrow...
Soon, the other hares scatter...save one. Tonight, as they dine at the family mega-table, there'll be a vacant chair. You'd be surprised if they'd notice. You'd be surprised if the vacant chair wouldn't be forgotten the instant anyone acknowledged it was empty...if they even got to before the family crowded up the room and started mimicking literally everyone else in the room.
Only now, do you unleash the falcon. You take him in your hands, stand, and lean over the side of the stand. On the count of three, you throw him to the wind.
He takes off, flies, and lands near the hare. He looks around, reeling and checking for danger. Subtly, he crawls over and mounts the hare. Again, he looks around. With all his might, he now takes off and returns to you in the stand.
A game bag, you hold open for Will-I-Am. He flies right past the stand and drops the hare as he goes. Like a netball through a hoop, your hare lands in the back, scoring perfectly.
This has all been fun. Now, you re-pack your gear. You re-leash your kestrel. Down the stand's ladder, you soon descend.
You check the position of the sun. You hope you can shoot more hares before too much time passes. So, with the kestrel perched on your hip-bar, you travel, in snow-shoes, through this wood, seeking out where the snowshoe hares would go next, once they've forgotten to fear your presence...and assuming you can keep your traces hidden from them, too. You avoid the bogs, for they can't swim. You avoid the cliffs, too, for they can't climb.
That Welsh rarebit has tided you over very well. Alas, you're still not convinced it'll get you through the entire day. Not to worry, though; in case you do need another meal, you've already got the meat for it, in your game bag...much though you'd rather have more hares in the bag before you return to the A-frames... Not to worry, though; these are the Northeast boreal woods. No one ever accused them of running out of fauna...tempting though it's been, some decades.